Ramblings of a Drunk
by raileht
Summary: Diane and Kurt in someone else's POV.


**Ramblings of a (Caring) Drunk  
**by: raileht

**Summary:** Diane and Kurt in someone else's POV.  
**Disclaimer:** The ones you don't know are mine, the ones you do aren't.  
**Rating:** T, to be safe

Warning: A lot of bad words. THIS REALLY IS JUST A PILE OF MESS. But my brain is fried and I am leaving in a few hours. Enjoy if you can. I hope that is possible. My worst post yet. All rambling.

Note: written_ and posted at the Christine Baranski Community on November 8, 2011_

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**Bethany Carlington  
Location: Party held by Lockhart/Gardner**  
**No. of drinks: Don't ask  
**

It's a miracle of sorts.

Yes, a miracle. Sort of. I can't be sure because I am using the term maybe liberally. I can't help it. I've got that thing with that big man upstairs various religions like to worship. There are days when I believe he exists, days when I think it's all bull, days when I _want_ to believe and days when I just say 'screw it' and move on. Those days vary because, well, I let day to day life affect me. I am human, you know.

But whatever. I'm not taking up your time to talk about my lack of faith. Or whatever those nutters would like to call it. Bunch of freaks, those fanatics. And Jehovah's witnesses wonder why people lock them out? Hell, I'd shoot them off my door if my husband would tell me where he keeps the damned gun.

So what miracle, you say? To you it might not be much, to me, it's big. Hey, I called it a miracle, didn't I?

Well, you see there's this man and this woman. Actually, I mostly care about the woman. But the man's there and he's part of the miracle so we get him too. He's not bad, really. Well, he could dress better, but he's got that kind of rear end you just _know _is the reason why the big man upstairs gave us Levi's. Yep, I am a firm believer that jeans helped populate the world. I mean, come _on_, it makes sense, doesn't it? Those damned things help humans mate! And believe me, it _works_.

But of course, tonight had to be a stinker because jeans aren't what one would call 'appropriate' for a shindig like this. Too fucking bad, actually. I mean, the tux is cute and all, but it hides the man's best quality.

Not that I'm looking.

I would not! That would be rude. And wrong since I'm married. Oh, and happen to be the woman's best friend.

Okay, fine, shut up. I can hear you giggling. The man has a nice ass, alright? His fault for displaying it and it's not like I've accosted him or anything. I wouldn't tackle a man, please! I just look, is all.

But back to the miracle...wait, I need a drink. A girl needs her drink. Especially since there's some incredibly good ones floating about. Damn you, Diane Lockhart, flaunting your firm like this...then again, this _has_ always been a dream of hers. I'll give her this. Still, the bitch.

Shut up. I have the right to call her that. It's a term of affection. And I'm a little—shut up! I said little!—drunk.

I'm in the middle of a Lockhart/Gardner party. It's supposed to be for their clients, but it's also a sort of re-launch and those two bastards' way of saying 'Ha! Jealous, bitches?' because they made it. That and it's also a subtle way of giving the finger to every dick and jane who screwed them over when the firm almost fell into ruins. I don't blame them. Recession hit them hard and it took five trips to hell and back just to get back in the game.

So what if they want some playtime? I say give it to them. They've earned it. Too bad old the old bastard Stern bit the dust. Bitter idiot, that one. I'll never know what Diane ever saw in him to admire, the little hobbit. Oh, shut up, I never believed in the whole 'don't speak ill of the dead' crap either. I called him a bastard and a hobbit while he was still hopping around like a rabbit on acid, why should I stop just because he dropped dead?

Oh, you! Little cretin! Look what you made me do...getting me all off the subject. Distractions!

Right. Okay. Miracle. I've got a drink and it's some delicious champagne in French or whatever. The hangover will be worth it. Back to 'why my best friend finally getting laid AGAIN' is a miracle.

The getting laid part isn't the miracle, you dirty minded imp. She can do that any time. There are hookers, after all...not that I am suggesting she would hire one but you know what I mean. Sex is sex. They're like waiters. You wave a hand and whomp, there it is!

Diane Lockhart is a great lawyer. Amazing, amazing and incredibly accomplished woman. Totally nuts with a whole bag of issues and _can_ drink a trucker under the table. And she's my best friend. Oh, and yes, don't forget a bitch because, really, she is. In a good way. A bitch with a heart. Not robot bitch like, say, that Streep character from that movie with the whole Vogue thing. No, my best friend is a bitch with a heart. That makes her perfectly likeable and incredibly human and blah, blah.

Oh, hell, you're in the party and obviously not a client or an employee. That leaves you either being a killer or a personal friend. If you're a killer, let me finish this drink and you can start off your mass murder with that blonde idiot in red over there...I think her name is Cate or something. You'll know which one. She's like the Malibu Barbie lawyer. I don't care where she came from or who she screwed to get hired into Diane's firm. She's an annoying little twit and she smiles too much. She likes to pretend to be in awe and eager and all that crap. Please, if she makes her eyes go any wider, I'll have to use them as target practice using my olives.

Besides, law school isn't hard if you know which books to read and what line to fake. That or you can go the All-American way—sleep with some old lout of a professor and fake it 'til you make it. Fake it…heh, get it?

And before you get any ideas, I did no such thing. I'm the bitch with a brain. If I was Malibu Barbie lawyer, I wouldn't be friends with Diane. She eats things like that when she's pissed as hell.

But whatever. You have your first victim, killer. And if you're not a killer then I've said too much and hello and hope you're getting as drunk as I am. Then again, you're listening to me so you probably are interested...well, I've got no gun to your head. Listen if you want. I'm here to get drunk and I talk a lot so I might as well make you useful.

Interested, eh? So we can be useful to each other. Have another drink, love.

She's wearing Dior. It's rather nice, isn't it? I told her to go with the red one but she wanted blue for the night. It's a stunner on her, blue silk and those shoes and all. Not that I'm surprised. She's always been that girl...you've seen the type—easy going, easy to like, thin in a way that you just _know_ she's going to end up wearing that dress you would kill for but could not fit into with your fat ass and, worst, she's also incredibly smart. She was the girl in high school you easily assumed was sleeping with someone because she was blonde and thin, pretty. And yes, she was also the one with whom you openly disdained but secretly would have robbed a bank for to be friends with.

Okay, you want the truth? She was tall, gangly and had a distinct distaste for the very kind I just described. Looking at her now, you wouldn't believe that though, wouldn't you? Oh, who cares?

Anyway, speaking of high school…come closer. Closer! I don't bite! I reserve that right for my husband. I've gotten back on track and you're gonna wanna listen to this.

See she's dating this guy. He's cute. In a plaid and jeans kinda way. Ever read those trashy romance novels? Sure, sure. Of course you don't. I'll give you a glimpse-he's that cowboy type with a mustache to boot, he's hot and he's got pretty eyes, a cute butt and a pair of hands that can turn any ice queen into putty. And yes, that is exactly what he did to my best friend.

He turned her into a nymphomaniac.

Oh! Sorry, sorry. I didn't see you were drinking. That's it, cough it out. Scotch burns, doesn't it? I'm sorry, alright? Accident. Bad timing. Just ride it out and you'll live. Kudos on the drink though. You have balls.

Anyway, why is my best friend getting together with this guy such a big deal? I won't go into the politics. It's been talked out already. She's Obama, he's—oh, dear lord, must I?—Sarah Palin and her merry old band of morons who condemn gay people and equal rights and everything that makes sense in the world. And yes, they're also the same batch of morons who end up raising their sons gay in the end. Irony, ain't she a bitch?

The guy's not an idiot, if you can believe that. He's got something to say without sounding like a nut. He's more old fashioned than outright conservative, I think. Then again, I've yet to see him at Boy Bar so...this is both good and bad, for a lot of reasons. Moving on.

Fact alone that she hopped into bed with him and did the horizontal mambo is surprising. She's less of a whore than I am in a way that she picks her 'playmate' with some standards. Republican _was_ on the no-no list and yet he got in there anyway. Miracle worker or voodoo child? Not sure. But like I said, he's got a nice ass (it's so nice I can't shut up about it, see?). That ought to count for something.

Crap. My drink's gone. What happened? Did you drink it? Did I? Oh, boy. Ah! Another. Yes! Here we are. No, I am NOT about to ruin the party. I've class, you know. And Diane would kill me. I mean, literally. Like she'll start by ripping out my scalp then move on from there. She's rather vicious...

Ick. Okay. Back to the miracle. I really am getting off track too much.

It's a miracle, all right? Because she's not just sleeping with him then tossing him out before daylight. He's not just sleeping with her then walking away. She laughs with him, talks to him, watches films with him and manages to talk politics without wringing his neck. He's a gun guy, she doesn't shy away from that and even though she won't tell me, I just _know _she's played with his guns.

Shut up! It was not an innuendo! I mean the real guns, you gutter-minded imp!

Not that I'm saying she hasn't played with his, erm, _gun_. Of course she has. We'd be stupid not to have that cleared already.

Where was I? Right.

She's gorgeous tonight and he's wearing a tux. She's been circulating but he's almost never left her side. A perfect gentleman. It's cute, you know.

Why is this a miracle?

Because this is a first for Diane Lockhart.

She usually throws these parties and either goes stag or goes with someone she's known forever and trusts. And yes, sometimes they are gay friends from New York who play butch because they love her. She prefers—or rather, preferred—it that way. And yet look at her now.

Dressed in that blue gown with her hand on her man's arm? It's a sight. You know it's not fake. How?

The way she smiles when she talks to him, about him and with him. She has that smile those love stories would describe. Those Anorexia card carrying holders in Hollywood copy that kind of look on film. It's a happy smile of a happy person. And he's no different. They've yet to stay apart for long the whole night. She's got him in a tux—jeans! Jeans! Jeans, damn it!—and he's not even showing signs of being pissed off about it. They talk, laugh and mingle. There have been jokes shared with friends about them to their faces and they laugh it off.

Not to mention they both have that look on their faces that says they're just itching to rip each other's clothes off the moment they're alone.

Yes, that look. Shut up. You know it.

She kissed him in public and he holds her hand when he can. If not her hand, her waist. It's all so cheesy and I would barf if it was someone else but watching those two? It kind of fits.

I've known her forever. I've seen her at her best and very worst-complete with barfing, crying and pissed off all in one night and this is a true story!—but I have never seen her this way.

For all I know, it could be love but I dare not use that word. God knows one whiff of that word and she'll scatter like a headless chicken. She's _that_ screwed up, yes, but I won't say anything else on the matter because she's my friend. She just doesn't _do _love, you know? It's something of her own, her little twisted part. I won't delve into it. I just know not to use love. It's early or rather, it's something she has to say first so we can talk about it.

He's a good guy, you know. I mean, I talk about his derriere a lot, but really, he's a good man. Trust me, I know since I've got someone looking into him. No dead bodies under his house, no mysterious disappearing wife, no divorce, no donations to neo-Nazis and hell, not even donations to Sarah 'ah-can-see-Russia-from-mah-window' Palin. Relief, that one! He seems normal and he has money so I know he's not mooching off her. He's got a dog and a farm full of horses.

It's almost too perfect, you know? Because Diane _does_ like dogs and horses, did I mention that? She does so I'm sure that's one more reason why she has been ditching me on weekends. She'll pay for that, of course, but that'll be for later. Wait, this can be the payment! Ha! Telling you, imp.

But...oh, damn, this is sobering. I hate sober in parties like this. Lawyers are frightfully dull, you know? Full of themselves and such. Well, most of them, I mean. I could be one of those people. I don't know. What do you think? No. Don't answer that. I'll probably get in trouble for punching you. Can you sue me? Do you have money? You probably do, dressed up and all that. And those shoes are _gorgeous_.

Have I actually said why this is a miracle? I have? Or probably not. Meh, I'm nearly drunk to a point now so I probably can't go into this deeper. It's surprising, is all. She's...in love. And happy. It's a sight. She might not know or is still denying she is, but that doesn't matter. They're quite a pair.

He's a handsome bastard. With a funny name. Kurt. I don't know. I've met a few Kurts but it's still funny to me. Sad about the last name though. What do you think of that? Last name McVeigh, Republican and all. You'd think recipe for disaster, right? Wait, maybe this is part of the miracle.

An ironic miracle.

God likes being funny, you notice? Although sometimes his jokes fall _really_ flat that it just…flattens entire nations or something. Sick sense of humor, I imagine. Wait, will saying that damn me to hell?

Oh, look...he just kissed her hair. I mean, seriously, I've never seen anyone get away with that with her. Especially in public. Funny thing, love, right? They look like one of those happy couples you either love and wish the very best in life or hate and predict they're headed for doom or really just putting on a fucking show.

And, oh, say that to my face, the doom and/or the putting on a show thing, and I WILL rip your hair out.

They're happy. So happy, she's practically glowing and even I didn't think she was the glowing type.

Anyway, to close...I'm glad. My best friend is happy and I'm drunk. Life's good.

God, what am I saying? I need another drink. And where's my husband? Why can't he be sweet? I should punish him. But then again, he puts up with me so can you just imagine? Probably not. I'm not that bad, honest. I _can_ be sober, you know. Although the bitch thing has no off switch, unless you count sleeping?

Maybe I should go bother them again. I've left my best friend with her man long enough. I mean, I _do _have duties to uphold, you know. That includes making them feel all embarrassed during parties and such. I've stayed—

What the...hell?

No.

No.

No. Way.

I must have drank too much already and I didn't think this was even possible. Or that I would ever say it but there's no way I am seeing what I am seeing. God, I need a drink. What is that? Is that real? Use your eyes, do you see what I see? I saw that! A glimpse! You didn't? Oh! You are useless! I've talked enough and I cannot believe you did not see that. You! Go away!

Drink! I need a drink! Garcon!

_What_ is that thing on her left hand?!


End file.
